14. XIV.
I MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF MR. CROMWELL.
I was so much astonished at this sudden revelation
of the identity of my traveling-companion, that I gazed
at him in stupid silence.
Thereupon the cordial smile returned to his fine
face, and he said,—
“We have conversed under a mask, as 'twere, sir;
and I take no umbrage at the opinions you have expressed
of a certain Mr. Hampden. I confess, even,
that the maxim noscitur a sociis bears with some justice
upon him, and perhaps justifies your views of him. But
now let us abandon these mooted subjects. We differ
in political views, but I dare to say that you are as true
and honest an English gentleman as any. I would fain
claim for myself the same character: I am called hospitable
at least, and there is my house through the oaks.
Will it please you, sir—see, the sun has set—to spend
the night with me?”
I refused, and then accepted. There was something
so gracious and noble in my companion's utterances
that I could not resist.
“Thanks, Mr. Hampden,” I said. “I accept your
hospitality as cordially as you offer it. I am named
Edmund Cecil,—a poor guardsman of the queen.”
“Of the Cecils of Warwickshire?”
“The same.”
“I know your father well, and esteem him highly,
Mr. Cecil. But here is my poor house.”
We entered a great park, and just at dusk came in
front of a large and handsome manor-house, built in
the Elizabethan style, and indicating wealth and consideration
in its proprietor.
In the great drawing-room I was presented to Mr.
Hampden's charming household; and in the faces which
greeted me with smiles, as in all the appointments of
the mansion, I observed that indefinable grace and distinction
which never deceives.
I had just returned the hospitable greetings of the
amiable family, when there came into the apartment a
robust personage, clad in a dark cloth suit entirely
without decoration, heavy boots covered with dust, and
an old slouch hat discolored by sun and rain. This
personage, despite the negligence of his attire, had yet
something lofty and imposing in the carriage of his
person: he advanced with an air of almost haughty
independence,—absorbed, it would seem from the absent
expression of his large eyes, in thoughts wholly
disconnected from his surroundings.
“The terrible Mr. Cromwell!” said my host, in a
low tone, smiling as he spoke. And I was presented
to the personage who so completely justified afterwards
the adjective now applied to him in jest.
Mr. Cromwell saluted me in an absent manner, and
then removed his hat, which he seemed to have forgotten.
I soon learned that he had just arrived from
Huntingdon, riding out of his way, to accompany Mr.
Hampden, his cousin, to London; and the evening
passed in desultory conversation. What chiefly impressed
me in this afterwards celebrated man was his
rough earnestness, the pith and force of his utterances,
which seemed to go right to the core of every subject,
and the occasional employment of scriptural names
and phrases in his conversation. I never before heard
Ahab, Baal, Og, and other Biblical personages alluded
to with such frequency or apparent gusto. And Mr.
Cromwell never smiled; he was profoundly in earnest,
and all his utterances were weighty. Even when
relating how an ape had snatched him from his cradle,
when an infant, and borne him, chattering, to the roof
of his father's house, and how he had been rescued
from drowning, when he had already sunk twice, and
his nose and mouth were filled with water, he did not
indulge in the faintest approach to a smile, but garnished
those narratives, like the rest of his discourse,
with names and allusions from the Old Testament
Scriptures.
This culminated when at bedtime he offered up a
prayer. It was an extraordinary prayer, deeply earnest
and devout; I might almost say passionate in its evident
outpouring from his inmost heart; but here too
were the inevitable Old Testament names and references.
When Mr. Cromwell rose from his knees, after
his long and fervent prayer, his eyes were as dreamy as
though fixed upon another world: he scarcely returned
the addresses of the family, and retired from the room
with the absent air of one who is walking in his sleep.
Such was the appearance of this extraordinary person
on that evening. He was commonplace; he became
terrible. He wore plain cloth; he came to wear royal
velvet. He was then Mr. Cromwell, unknown save as
a country member; he was to become known throughout
the world as the slayer of King Charles I., the Lord
Protector of England, and one of the greatest sovereigns
that ever sat upon the English throne.
On the next morning I bade Mr. Hampden and his
excellent household farewell, and, riding rapidly to
make up for lost time, arrived late in the evening at
Hampton Court.
